Cold Fury

Igoshin nodded and accepted the sample case.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Rokva snapped, the irritation evident in his voice.

As he tucked the case under his arm, Igoshin headed for the idling vehicles.

“Hey,” Nome asked, “what you got going with the Indians?”

Rokva allowed his expression to reflect a benign composure as he realized that while they’d spoken primarily in Russian, he’d said the word Indian in English.

“Not one of your Indians,” he said. “From India. He is our connection in Canada.”

The skin around Nome’s eyes wrinkled slightly as he nodded. “I told you before, you can’t trust them. Not the ones around here, anyway.”

“Apples and oranges. We will need the use of one of your houses. One with several clean rooms. For a few hours.”

“Not a problem,” Nome said before his head jutted forward. “Hey, what the hell?”

The Georgian turned to see several of the cargo males stopping to bend over and vomit. They were about ten feet away now. Another was retching, as well, and then the first dropped his pants and began depositing a blast of diarrhea over the edge of the pier.

“What the hell’s wrong with them?”

“They never got their sea legs,” Rokva said.

Nome frowned, wrinkling his nose. “Christ, they stink.”

“Which is why we will need a shower or bathtub facility.”

“Wait a minute. No way. If you think I’m gonna clean up after all those assholes, you got another think coming.”

Before Rokva could speak, Nome’s cell phone rang and he quickly answered it. More of the cargo males began to vomit. Another pulled down his pants as the more healthy ones, the women and the children, hurried past.

“Pull up your damn pants, you pigs,” Rokva yelled in Russian. “You disgust me.”

Galkin heard his boss’s statement and kicked the bent-over man in the rump. He went flying.

“Greagor, go make yourself useful in herding those cows into the trucks.” He then shouted instructions to separate the men from the women and children and put them in different vehicles. One of the men who’d been vomiting teetered on unsteady legs then collapsed.

“Pick him up and carry him,” Rokva shouted. “Now.”

“Why are you separating us?” one of the other men shouted in Russian.

“Shut up and do as you’re told, asshole,” Denisov yelled. He punctuated his command with a swift strike of the stock of his rifle. The man fell on all fours, his head bobbling back and forth like a child’s yo-yo.

“What are you waiting for?” Rokva said, looking at Lebed.

He mashed his lips together then shuffled off toward the group.

The mafiya captain turned back to Nome, who was still talking on his phone. After a few more muttered utterances, he terminated the call and stared at the Georgian with a worried expression.

“We’ve got trouble,” Nome said. “An Alaska state trooper just got here and is asking a bunch of questions.”

“What kinds of questions?”

Nome shrugged. “I don’t know. About any new arrivals most likely.” His tongue darted over his chapped lips like a nervous lizard. “Wait till he gets a whiff of your brigade. Shit, I can’t afford this kind of trouble.”

“How many are there?”

Nome shrugged again. “Looks like just one, as far as I know.”

“Where is he at?”

“By the airstrip, I guess.”

Rokva usually preferred to avoid contact or conflict with the authorities, but in this case their timetable had been affected by the unavailability of the second large plane. He was also concerned that his text to Yuri in Seattle had never been answered.

That could mean the police had intercepted him and the first shipment of women, and had in turn notified the authorities here in Alaska. Had Yuri talked? He didn’t think that was a probability, but how else could they have traced them here? Then it dawned on him: his phone. Perhaps the authorities had been able to trace the call.

He immediately took out his phone, turned it off and removed the battery. He considered tossing it into the water, but hesitated. He needed it to contact the rest of the group along the route. Besides, if the police had been using the phone’s frequency to trace him, perhaps he could use it to turn things to his favor... Use it to lure them into a trap.

For now he would keep the phone, but it would remain turned off.

“How the hell did they find you guys?” Nome asked. “Now I got the cops on my tail.”

“No matter. It will be taken care of,” Rokva said. He turned to Sergei, who had obviously been following the conversation. Since Sergei’s English was not very good, he said in Russian, “The police are in the village. By the airstrip. Go take care of it.”

“Do you know how many?” Sergei asked, tossing his cigarette to the ground and crushing it.

Rokva shook his head. Through his business dealings, he knew the Alaska troopers were grossly understaffed. Most of the time they worked by themselves or with one other person. Either way, it would be child’s play for Sergei, and it would also give him a chance to shake off any rust he might have accumulated during the sea voyage. He watched as his friend trotted quickly toward the row of trucks. Despite the constant smoking, the former Spetsnaz commando could run like a racehorse, never getting tired.

Sergei got into the first truck. After a brief moment, the vehicle started down the road, past the row of nearby unlighted buildings, and headed toward the village.

“Hey, what’s he gonna do?” Nome asked. “I don’t need no dead cops around here. That’ll just bring more heat.”

“I should think that a little heat would be welcome in this inhospitable climate,” Rokva said, allowing a slight smile to creep over his lips. He took a final drag on his cigarette, flicked it away, and called out to Aleksi Galkin, who was the next most competent man in the squad after Sergei.

He hurried over, holding his Kalashnikov at port arms. “Yes, boss,” he said.

They spoke in Russian, the Georgian not wanting Nome to be privy to the conversation.

“Separate all the men from the group. Take them to the building he will show you—” Rokva gestured toward the American “—and bring the equipment.” He called out to Boris Kazak. The heavyset, squat man lumbered forward, holding his medical bag to his chest like an old woman carrying food from a market. He paused on the pier, stared down at one of the dark puddles littering the surface, shook his head and then walked over to his boss.

“I do not like the look of this,” Kazak said. “There are traces of blood in that excrement.”

Rokva shrugged. “It seems to be just the men. The ones we got from the gulag. Aleksi is separating them from the rest for you.”

“I still do not like it.”

“You do not have to like it. Just do what you’re supposed to do.”

“I need to get someplace warm,” Kazak said, tucking his medical bag under one arm to find his cigarettes. “This cold is numbing my hands.”

“They will take you to warm house. Then you can get to work.”

Kazak placed a cigarette between his lips, pulled off his glove and fished in his pocket for a lighter. “How much time do I have?”

“We will take off in two hours.”

He recoiled. “Two hours? I am a doctor, not some idiot working in a butcher shop.”

“Work faster,” Rokva said. “Aleksi will have some of the men assist you.”

Kazak lit the cigarette and blew out smoke. “Very well. Let us get started, then.”

Rokva looked to the transport trucks and saw that the last of the male cargo was being loaded.

“Take the women and the children to the airstrip,” he ordered his men. “They can wait in the hangars. And have someone make sure the plane is fueled and ready to go. We will leave in two hours.”

“Da,” Galkin said. The big Russian then headed toward the trucks, his boots crunching on the crusty snow.

“Hey,” Nome said, “what were you guys talking about?”

The mafiya captain turned to the American. “You will show Boris to the building we are going to use for the cleanup. Those over there will suffice.”

“The fisheries?” Nome began to shake his head. “No way. I already told you—”

“We will also need to make use of some of your heavy equipment,” Rokva added. “A backhoe and a bulldozer.”

“I’m not doing anything until we get something settled first.” Nome poked his index finger against the other man’s chest. “This is gonna cost you double the usual.”

Rokva grabbed the extended finger and bent it backward, forcing Nome to his knees.

“I do not like to repeat myself,” he said, bringing more pressure to bear. “Do not ever use that tone with me. And never question my instructions again. Do you understand?”

Nome’s face contorted in pain as his head bobbed up and down.

Rokva maintained his grip for a few seconds more before releasing the man with a sudden push.

The American tumbled backward onto his backside, glaring upward with hatred in his eyes, but saying nothing.

Nikoloz unzipped his parka a bit more and pulled it open, displaying the 9 mm Tokarev pistol that he wore in a shoulder holster.

After a few more seconds of silence, Nome looked away and slowly got to his feet. “Okay, man,” he said. “I’m sorry, okay? No disrespect meant.”

Rokva nodded. He had already made the decision that this vermin had outlived his usefulness. Their route had obviously been compromised. It was time to take care of loose ends.

“But look...” Nome said, brushing the snow off the back of his pants. “I still got a right to know what’s going on, don’t I?”

The Georgian took out his cigarettes again, leisurely removing one from the pack and sticking it between his lips. As he raised his lighter, the stillness of the night was interrupted by a distinct crack.

A gunshot.

Sergei had apparently found the trooper.

“What the hell was that?” Nome asked.

“Nothing that is of concern to you,” Rokva said. He held the flame to the tip of his cigarette.

Nome Airport, Alaska

A myriad of tiny white flecks of snow crashed against the windshield as Bolan surveyed the lighted tarmac before them. The airport wasn’t very large and a one-story tan building in the center formed the main hub. Bolan assumed the row of hangars lay beyond that.

Once Grimaldi had taxied up as close as he could to the terminal, he shut the jet down and coasted to a stop as the ground crew came running forward to meet them. The Stony Man pilot yawned as he unbuckled himself.

Bolan unfastened his seatbelt, stood and stretched. Unable to adequately rest during the flight, he was feeling the unwelcome vestiges of fatigue and stiffness residing in his tight muscles. After sitting for over three and a half hours, it felt good to stretch a bit. He wondered if the lingering fatigue was a byproduct of the cramped conditions or the lack of sleep. Both he and Grimaldi had been on the go since early the morning of what was now the previous day, and he could use a cup of hot, strong coffee.

Grimaldi worked the lever to unlock the door and release the stairway so they could deplane. The cold air engulfed them as soon as the door was fully open.

“Jeez, I shoulda brought an extra pair of long johns.”

Bolan picked up the two backpacks that contained their weapons and tossed Grimaldi his.

As soon as he stepped out onto the platform, the blast of frigid air engulfed Bolan like a blanket of ice. It was a vivid reminder of how inadequate their clothing was for this climate and their need to restock before they could proceed any further on this mission. He hoped Kurtzman had taken care of that, but at the same time he assumed everything had been set in place. He had never let the Executioner down.

As they made their way across the tarmac, Bolan caught sight of a big man in a brown parka and dark stocking hat waiting at the entrance to a hangar. The bright colors of the Alaska state trooper patch decorated the man’s left shoulder. Also visible was a conspicuous bulge on the big man’s right hip—a weapon, no doubt. As he and Grimaldi drew closer, the trooper grinned, his white teeth flashing from under a bushy reddish mustache.

“I’m Lieutenant Dave Case,” he said, extending his hand. “Alaska State Troopers.”

Bolan shook Case’s hand. “Matt Cooper, Justice Department.” With his left hand, he held up the false DOJ credentials that he routinely used as a cover. Grimaldi showed his faux ID, as well.

Case barely glanced at them, instead staring into Bolan’s eyes.

“Welcome to Alaska,” he said. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting the guys who had enough clout to wake up my district supervisor in the middle of the night and then have him send me out as a welcoming committee.”

“From the size of you, big guy,” Grimaldi said with a chuckle, “committee’s an appropriate term.”

Case snorted. “Yeah, you know what they say. Everything’s bigger in Alaska.”

“I take it your supervisor mentioned that we’re on the trail of some human traffickers?” Bolan asked, steering things back to business.

“He did. We dispatched a man up to the Wales area to check things out.”

“One man? The guys we ran into in Seattle played pretty rough. Russian mafiya from the looks of it.”

Case’s face took on a serious expression. “That’s what I was told, but up in these parts we don’t have an unlimited number of personnel to send on any given call. We’re used to working alone.”

“Has your man gotten there yet?” Bolan asked.

“He radioed Dispatch that he’d arrived at the airstrip and was going to checking things out. But that was a while ago and we haven’t heard back from him.”

“Well,” Grimaldi said, jerking his thumb toward the now vacant Learjet, “as soon as that baby’s fueled up and ready to go, I’ll fly us up there.”

“I take it you haven’t been up here before,” Case said.

“We’ve been all over the world,” Grimaldi replied. “Although this place hasn’t exactly been on my bucket list. But an airport’s an airport in my book.”

“You could hardly call what’s up that way the kind of airport you’re used to. It’s a gravel strip about four thousand feet long that’s usually plowed, depending on the weather.” He gestured toward the jet. “I doubt you’d have enough room to land that thing on it without a tail-hook. Not to mention the gravel getting sucked up into the turbines.”

Grimaldi pursed his lips, said nothing.

“Lieutenant,” Bolan said, “we need to get up there ASAP. We’ve been tracking this group for several hours and your man might need backup.”

“I agree,” Case said. “But we don’t always have a ton of equipment at our disposal.” He pointed toward a blue-and-white helicopter. “That’s one of ours, and it’s ready to go, but we’re waiting on a pilot.”

Grimaldi cleared his throat loudly. “Well, you got one. I’ll go start my preflight check.”

“You can fly a copter?” Case asked.

“In my sleep, wearing a blindfold over one eye.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a different ballgame up here,” Case said. “With the weather conditions and the mountains and—”

“I know all about carb-heat, bud,” Grimaldi said. “Listen, if it’s got wings or rotors, I can fly it, and that includes anyplace on the planet. Now, excuse me.” He began walking toward the helicopter.

“He’s a cocky son of bitch, isn’t he?” Case said with grin. “Can he back it up?”

“He walks the walk,” Bolan said, feeling the effects of the brutal temperature starting to numb his body. “I believe you were supposed to get us some appropriate cold-weather gear, as well, weren’t you?”

“Oh, right.” Case stepped to the side and indicated that he should step into the hangar. “It’s a bit warmer in there.”

Case pointed to three large duffel bags, each stuffed with equipment. A black elliptical case, apparently containing snowshoes, was draped over each one.

“There are also survival rations in the copter.”

“I appreciate your efforts.”

“Nothing but the best for the DOJ,” Case said. “You brought your own weapons I take it?”

Bolan held up his backpack and nodded before heading into the relative warmth of the hangar. The pervasive cold still lingered like an unwelcome adversary. He went to a duffel bag and opened it. A heavy parka had been packed on top and Bolan pulled it out and slipped it on. The fit was pretty good.

“We’ll need some extra ammo, too,” he said to Case. “Nine millimeter, if you can spare it.”

“Not a problem,” the trooper replied. “What kind of guns you guys carrying?”

Bolan didn’t answer. He had no desire to explain why they were both equipped with two MP-5 submachine guns as well as their sidearms. Instead, he went to the other duffel, pulled out an identical parka and walked it over to Grimaldi.

“Here you go, Jack,” Bolan said, tossing his partner the parka.

Grimaldi caught it and slipped it on quickly. He rubbed his hands together and then covered his ears. “I need a stocking hat, too. Or maybe that balaclava.”

Bolan nodded and went to Grimaldi’s backpack, which was lying on the ground a few feet away. He unzipped the side panel and took out the black balaclava. It was made of a thin material that expelled perspiration but allowed the wearer to feel warmth in colder climates while maintaining comfort in unbearably hotter ones. He gave the mask to Grimaldi, who slipped it on and went back to his inspection of the chopper.

Bolan was digging in his own backpack when Case came up beside him.

“I didn’t know you DOJ agents did field investigations like this,” he said. “Aren’t you guys more into the white-collar stuff?”

Grimaldi paused with his inspection and pulled open the parka, gripping the dark collar of his BDU blouse with his thumb and forefinger. “Does that look white to you?”

Case said nothing.

“We’re more in the tactical investigative branch,” Bolan said.

Case looked from one to the other and nodded. “Okay. I get it.” He pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number.

Bolan wondered whom the man was calling, but didn’t ask. Case spoke loud enough for him to gather that the call was to the central dispatch regarding the trooper sent to the Wales area.

After a few moments, Case frowned and terminated the call. “My trooper still hasn’t checked in again from the scene,” he said. “How soon can you get that thing ready?”

“Give me about ten more minutes,” Grimaldi said.

Case nodded and went to a Jeep Cherokee with Alaska State Police markings. He opened the door and removed a duffel bag and an AR-15 that was sitting on top. He slid the rifle into a black leather sleeve attached to the side of the bag. Bolan was glad to see that the weapon had a thirty-round magazine.

In a few minutes they would be underway and hopefully on the trail of some answers.

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